


When Flowers Bloomed

by avityfalia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Compliant, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jeralt and Sitri Deserved Better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tragic Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avityfalia/pseuds/avityfalia
Summary: Twenty years ago, the former captain of the Knights of Seiros found himself the subject of interest of an enigmatic woman with a peculiar fondness for flowers. Twenty years ago, a nun under the direct tutelage of the archbishop sought to experience the world through the words of a taciturn man. From a friendship forged in mutual curiosity to a selfless love capable of moving mountains, the story of Jeralt and Sitri Eisner was—without question—the greatest love story in all of Fódlan.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & Alois Rangeld, Jeralt Reus Eisner & Rhea, Jeralt Reus Eisner/My Unit | Byleth's Mother, Jeralt Reus Eisner/Sitri Eisner | Byleth's Mother, Sitri Eisner | Byleth's Mother & Aelfric, Sitri Eisner | Byleth's Mother & Rhea
Comments: 17
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's been seven years since I've published anything online, but alas, I have finally decided to crawl out of my hovel to provide this fandom the Sitralt content it deserves. I love Jeralt's character, and after playing Cindered Shadows, I loved him even more. His and Sitri's love story filled me with so much emotion that I have made it my personal duty to write about them. Updates will be... irregular, as I am currently a senior in college and working on other projects, but I will try to update this every other week. I am also taking some creative liberties with this story, so it may not necessarily be "by the book" canon (but we were only given snippets of information to begin with; I'll take my chances).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story! I'm a bit rusty, so comments and feedback are always appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning(s):** Graphic Description, Harm to Children

The infant was close to death when Rhea had received her. Sweat had collected on the frail child’s forehead, causing her soft teal tufts to matt uncomfortably against her clammy skin. She was writhing in pain; with every convulsion of her small frame, her shrill cries grew louder and louder.

“And you’re sure she has no one else?”

The older woman who had brought the child to her—Imogen, she recalled—shook her head solemnly. “Aye, ma’am. The knights did search f’r survivors... but none th’re were. Sir Jeralt himself said so. The little one’s got no kin left and hasn’t a name either. Nuns tried healin’ her, but nothin’ they did helped.”

Rhea frowned. She’d have to discuss the events that transpired with the current captain soon. The decimation of small settlements that were in the midst of nowhere had been occurring with more frequency, but providing assistance to the small communities was made difficult by the fact they weren’t on any map. More people were coming to Fódlan for refuge, it seemed, and at an alarming pace too. Unfortunately, the promise of safety and security nowadays was an illusion, and the proof was in her arms.

The circumstances surrounding the child reminded Rhea of a time long gone when she had returned to Zanado, only to find that her people, her brethren, had been slaughtered mercilessly. No one was spared—mothers, their children, husbands, and wives were indiscriminately murdered, and their blood painted her birthplace a sickening red accompanied by the stench of iron.

It made it easy to sympathize with the child, and it made the archbishop’s decision to save her a little easier to swallow. She ignored the feeling of guilt in her heart, pushed out the small voice in her head that told her this wasn’t right, ignored the fact that this had failed so many times before, and silenced the part of her soul that was screaming in protest.

Rhea took a deep, shuddery breath. She could ruminate over the ethics of creating a thirteenth vessel another time. At this moment, the only thing she was doing was saving a human with no one left in the world on the brink of death.

“Imogen.” Rhea’s shift in tone startled the older woman who was now regarding her nervously. “I will do my best to save the child, but I cannot make any promises.” Rhea gazed down at the child in her arms. She was quieter than she’d been a minute before and significantly paler. “I must ask that you leave for now. Ensure you lock the door behind you as you go.”

The thought of leaving the child, especially in her current condition, must have distressed Imogen because she did not make a move to open the door and step out after she'd been asked to. Rhea sighed, looking away from the baby to offer a gentle smile to the woman who’d brought the nameless child to her. “I can assure you, you will be the first to know of the infant’s wellbeing. The Goddess does not so easily abandon those in need, and she is no exception.”

Her words, thankfully, were enough to ease Imogen, and with the click of the door signaling her departure, Rhea briskly made her way to the Holy Tomb via the hidden passageway attached to the antechamber next to her quarters. The child began to stir with each step she took until she was crying once again, and once more Rhea ignored the way her heart clenched in her chest in an attempt to force her to just _reconsider_ — 

But she deliberately ignored it and cooed at the child gently instead.

“Everything will be alright, I promise. You won’t feel a thing,” Rhea’s hands glowed white over the child, lulling the infant into a deep sleep as she gently set her on the throne where she’d once received a revelation, “because you’ll be sleeping soundly.”

Hand hovering just above the child’s chest, Rhea steeled herself as she removed the necklace around her neck. The locket attached to the necklace was always hidden close to her heart; it was her most precious possession, a pulsing red stone that had once belonged to a long-forgotten woman.

“One day... I hope you'll come to forgive me.” 

The sickening sound of flesh separating and bones snapping echoed throughout the empty chamber as Rhea drove her hand into the child’s chest, but she ignored it. The process was gruesome, just as it had been the past twelve times, but she held out that this time things would be different. Planting the crest stone against the baby’s no longer beating heart brought forth the faces of previous vessels. What would they think of her now? What would they have to say?

The thought left a crippling feeling inside of her heart, but this time would be different—this time it would work.


	2. A Seed Is Sown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the (not really) long-awaited second chapter to this ambitious fic. My college schedule has been busting my ass, so I've been really pushing to get as much of this done bit by bit each day to motivate myself to write more. Each kudos and bookmark gives me a little strength.
> 
> **Warning(s):** Implied Child Abuse

For longer than he could remember, Jeralt had been an early riser. As a boy, his father, now long-deceased, had a nasty habit of waking him long before the sun was gracing the earth with its warm rays to work him to the bone. His natural affinity when it came to wielding a lance had not gone unnoticed by his old man who prided himself a bit too much on his status as the personal guard to some pompous noble that Jeralt had frankly never given a rat’s ass about, but it was the duty of a son in those days to take up his father’s mantle when he passed on.

It had been more than a century since his father had relentlessly whipped him into shape without an ounce of sympathy, leaving Jeralt battered and bruised until he was capable of holding his own against the knight, more than a century since Jeralt had run away from a home that was comparative to a prison, and more than a century since Jeralt had held his mother and thanked her for a debt he would never be able to repay as she had been the one who’d made his escape possible.

“So, Captain—”

_Ah_. Jeralt had forgotten that he was being tailed by the most talkative person who’d ever lived.

“Do you always wake up this early to patrol the grounds? What about taking the same route around the monastery? Is it more convenient to take the same path—”

He wondered if pointing in the opposite direction and yelling in mock-alarm would give him the five seconds he’d need to sprint somewhere quiet.

“Or do you change it up to keep potential ruffians on their toes?”

Jeralt sighed. As unbearably social as Alois was, he was too bright to fall for that sort of gimmick.

“There’s no need to make it more complex than it actually is,” he explained. “You just make the rounds. There’s not much else to it.” Alois, seeming to pick up on Jeralt’s desire for a moment of quiet, refrained from asking any further questions which suited Jeralt just fine... but there was a little tug of guilt in his chest when he looked back at his former squire who seemed a bit disheartened from his words, and he wondered if perhaps he’d been too blunt.

Deciding that it couldn’t be helped, Jeralt initiated the conversation this time around, occasionally pointing out locations that were less secure than others, places where guards weren’t always active, and structural weaknesses in the monastery’s design that were easier for people to sneak into. Formal comments eventually molded into casual conversation until Jeralt found himself telling the young man about the bricks that, if you looked closely, differed in color and texture from others.

“There used to be hidden entrances,” he explained, his hand brushing against one of the bricks in question, “all over the place. Soldiers would use them to get from one place to another without being seen. There’s a huge network of passages within the walls of the monastery. Most of them are too damaged to lead to other places within the grounds anymore, but there's still a few surprises hidden just past the walls.”

Alois was quiet—a little too quiet for Jeralt’s taste—and as he turned to figure out what had caused this shift in his behavior, he was met with a look he knew all too well. Attempting to climb out of the hole he’d inadvertently dug for himself, Jeralt quickly added, “It’s something you’ve probably already heard of.”

“Ah, Captain! You wouldn’t rob me of one of your stories, now would you?”

Dammit! He was in too deep already. With a sigh, Jeralt retracted his hand from the rough stone and began to walk. He’d said too much it seemed. “I’m pretty sure I’ve told you every story I’ve got, Alois. Come on now, we’ve still got some ground to—”

“You wound me, Jeralt! To think, you’d deny your good pal the pleasure of your stories. It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick break, would it? All that’s left is giving the area by the greenhouse a thorough glance, and would you look at that! It’s right over there!”

It was very clear to Jeralt at this point that Alois would not let up, and cursing under his breath, he followed the loud knight to the last stop on what had _almost_ been a relatively peaceful patrol.

The biting winds of the Ethereal Moon lashed against Jeralt’s skin, leaving his teeth chattering. Snow was sticking to his lashes, and the damn gloves he’d scrambled to grab did absolutely _nothing_ against the way the small crystals of ice numbed his hands to the point that he was pretty confident they’d just fall off altogether. Everyone else was sound asleep in the monastery, comfortably snuggled beneath layers of thick quilts to keep warm from this moon’s harsh weather.

Jeralt, though an early riser, should have been one of those people, and he probably would have been one of those people if not for the fact that the most stubborn person at Garreg Mach had practically dragged him out of bed to show him something that apparently couldn’t wait for a few hours.

“Lewin. It’s three in the morning. What’s so damn important that you had to drag me out _this_ early?”

The man who’d roped the youngest of the knights into sneaking around at such an unholy hour peered back at him with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Without the light of the sun, his usually grey orbs appeared a shade darker, putting Jeralt on guard.

“Come now, Jeralt. Have I ever let you down?”

“All the damn time,” he responded, without missing a beat.

His companion looked back at him with a slanted grin. “Are you always this cruel to your closest friends?”

Shrugging, Jeralt cupped his hands near his mouth to breathe hot air on them in an attempt to thaw them out. “If you’re one of my closest friends, I must be doing something incorrectly.”

“Ah, don’t be like that. I’m only trying to help you, kid. Maybe it involves waking up a little earlier than usual to sneak around in the monastery’s walls, but consider it a... knightly trial. Hell, if you pass it, maybe you’ll finally earn that beard you’ve been trying to grow for the past six months.”

_Ah_. He was going there.

“Quick question.”

“Alright, shoot.”

“Did your mother ever teach you when to shut up? Or is it just something you’ve always been incapable of doing?”

Lewin laughed. “She tried, but I just never learned. She couldn’t handle my personality and sent me here instead.”

This drew the closest thing to a laugh a puff of air could be from the blonde who, despite arguing that they needed to head back to the knights’ quarters to actually sleep, followed his old friend without further question to see what it was that the monastery’s intricate system of hidden entrances and exits had to offer. It wasn’t as though he had more important things to attend to at the moment, and as long as they returned before sunrise, the possibility that the captain would chew them out was slim to none.

The two bantered for a while, poking fun at each other as all good friends were prone to, until reaching a dilapidated wall composed of worn, misshapen bricks. It was covered in overgrowth, and to anyone passing by it would have appeared as nothing more than another structure in need of repair. Standing closer to it though, Jeralt noted that there was a slight draft coming from the leaves. It was warmer than the frigid midnight air, and he did not hesitate to bring his hands closer to the only warmth he had felt since leaving the sanctuary of his bed.

“I stumbled upon it when I was on patrol the other night,” Lewin began. “As you’ve so _kindly_ mentioned before, I lack the capacity to leave things as they are and decided to do some exploring.”

“During your patrol.”

“Technically speaking, I was still patrolling the monastery.”

“ _Technically speaking_ , you were slacking on the job.”

“Let’s not argue about semantics.”

Jeralt crossed his arms but didn’t bother to argue the point. It wasn’t his job to police the knights’ token wild card; if Lewin wanted to get in trouble, that was on him. Still, his curiosity was piqued. Though there were plenty of hidden locations in the monastery, none of them were of remote interest. Whatever was hiding behind the thick veil of foliage must have been an exception to this rule—despite his demeanor, Lewin was not one who was easily excitable.

“We haven’t got all night, friend. Get a move on, lest Aldred wakes earlier than he usually does to whip us poor subordinates into shape.”

Jeralt was less than gracefully shoved through a small opening within the crumbling bricks he’d failed to notice, cursing audibly when he stumbled blindly into cobwebs. He was followed by Lewin who was carrying a torch he’d lit with his limited knowledge of magic. He wore an amused look on his face watching Jeralt spit out the dust but refrained from commenting. It was appreciated, given the fact that Jeralt was moments away from throttling him for shoving him into a cramped hole.

Once again, he was reminded by Lewin that the unsolicited outing would be _well_ worth the effort, and with a shred of disdain for having to squeeze through the dingy, abandoned passageway, he followed him through the winding tunnels for a good while until they reached a door, conveniently unlocked and waiting for someone to enter.

Jeralt was the first to step out from the dim passage and through the door, glad to finally be rid of the claustrophobic feeling that had been building up the longer they’d been walking. It had ultimately been worth it though, and with a stupid grin on his face Jeralt picked up a dusty glass bottle from a splintered crate.

“I take back what I said about you letting me down.” Jeralt’s laugh echoed around the room when he read the year on the bottle. “You’ve truly delivered this time around—I apologize for ever doubting you.”

The remainder of the night was spent drinking in camaraderie, the warmth of alcohol serving as a respite from the insurmountable pressure that came with the pledge of knighthood and the frigid air of a winter’s night. Considering the nature of next week’s mission, this was a much appreciated break.

“We’ll celebrate with another drink when we return from the Empire,” Lewin said. “Hell, and every other mission after that! Misery loves company.”

“Better words have never been spoken,” Jeralt laughed. Taking another swig from his bottle, his mind pondered over the privilege of drinking with a friend and celebrating one’s victories. It was a charming concept that Jeralt couldn’t help but look forward to, as it was one he’d never experienced as a soldier for the Kingdom.

_It was_... _nice_.

Jeralt sighed, stepping into the greenhouse to collect himself. It wasn’t that he necessarily disliked recounting his experiences, and he didn’t even dislike Alois. Some stories were just... _difficult_ to recall without indulging in too much detail. To everyone else’s knowledge, Jeralt had been a knight for some time, but the actual number of years he’d been in service to Rhea was a well-kept secret. Indulging his former squire in tales unknown and sparing names and details that might give him away was a difficult task. Still, he felt compelled to entertain a select few with his stories; they were memories that weren’t worth forgetting and sharing what details he could was truthfully the only method he had of preserving them.

It had been over a hundred years after all—anyone who’d lived that long was bound to forget a few things. Alois had luckily been called away by a guard rushing by for help with what Jeralt surmised was nothing more than a hormone-fueled brawl in the training grounds. Most everyone knew he wasn’t especially fond of the noble brats who attended the academy, and for the sake of not offending one of the sheltered little brats with his brutal honesty, he was spared the responsibility of being an interloper in the affair of rowdy teens.

The break was appreciated. Alois had a habit of asking questions that Jeralt didn’t quite have the heart to answer. At least in the isolation of the greenhouse, he could ruminate in much desired solitude.

At least, that was what he’d initially _thought_ , but when he turned around to find someplace to sit instead of standing around like some idle idiot, he bumped into something, or rather, someone.

The sound of a pot shattering echoed around the not-quite-unoccupied building along with a stranger’s surprised gasp, and he stumbled backwards, cursing aloud.

“I-I apologize!” a small voice stammered. “That was my fault—I hadn’t meant to startle you like that.”

When he looked over to see who it was he’d knocked into like a complete moron to offer a proper apology, the person in question—a nun, he realized—was already kneeling on the ground, attempting to clean up the remnants of what looked like a very expensive pot.

“Let me help with that,” he offered, kneeling down with her.

The woman in question shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her hair. He noted that it was an unusual shade of green, but didn’t dwell on it too much. “It’s not necessary,” she quietly protested, but he only shook his head as he began to help with the task of cleaning up the mess he helped make.

She didn’t say much, only offering a quiet thank you when they’d finally piled all the pieces together. Dirt was still scattered all over, but it was the greenhouse. The whole damn place was covered in it.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Jeralt spoke up to break the ice. It wasn’t something he was usually keen on doing, but he felt as though he owed it to her for destroying whatever it was she’d been working on.

“I was surprised I didn’t see you there. I’m usually better at detecting when someone is nearby. Guess I’m starting to get rusty.”

_Brilliant way to start a conversation_ , _Jeralt_.

The woman peered up at him with an apologetic look in her eyes. They were striking shade of emerald that truthfully threw him for a loop.

“I’m afraid I’m the one at fault. When I heard you telling that story, I couldn’t help but listen in. It’s my own fault for eavesdropping.”

Ah, so she’d heard him then. Even if she had been eavesdropping, Jeralt found he couldn’t hold it against her. Odd.

“You’re... the captain of the knights. Jeralt, right? I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of things.” There was an unmistakable look of yearning in her eyes. “You’ve probably been to a lot of places too.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

The young woman nodded, gently picking up a flower that had been uprooted when its vase had shattered. It was banged up, and that was putting it lightly, the deep blue petals on the small blooms bruised or gone completely.

Jeralt scratched the back of his head guiltily. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to, uh, kill your flowers.”

She regarded him with a twinkle in her eyes. “You don’t need to apologize. Forget-me-nots are pretty durable as long as the conditions are right.” Scooting closer to him, she grabbed his hands and without an ounce of hesitation scooped up some of the scattered soil and dropped it into his palms. “This variety is a perennial,” she continued without a care for decorum as she took the battered flower and planted it within the soil in his palm. “They prefer shade and moist soil, but they can learn to adapt and thrive in any condition. I was wanting to plant it outside to see how direct sunlight might affect it, but then we bumped into each other...”

Jeralt was caught between listening to her go on about flowers, a subject he absolutely had no knowledge of, and trying to process the fact that she was using his hands as a replacement for the broken pot.

“Not many of them grow near the monastery,” she continued, “but where you can find them, they grow like weeds. I’ve been trying to convince the head gardener to let me grow some, but he’s adamant that they’ll spread like weeds. No matter where I plant them, someone, and I’m betting it’s _him_ , always tears them up.”

He chuckled at the latter statement, relieved that she was opening up rather than verbally chastising him. A nice change of pace compared to how the other nuns often chewed him out for his unsavory habits.

Their discussion quickly became a one-sided conversation, but the captain of the knights didn’t mind and listened quietly. Something about her excitement served as a salve to the funk he’d fallen into when he’d found himself reminiscing over a past that was nothing more than a fleeting memory.

“Will you continue to hold on to that for me?” He blinked stupidly, still not understanding why it was he’d been tasked with holding the small blue flowers. “I’ll be right back, I just need to get something.”

Not a man known for his ability to handle delicate things, it was odd being offered something other than a sword, a lance, or even a beer to hold onto. She didn’t leave him a moment to even deny her request and explain that it was probably a foolish idea to even have him handling the plant in the first place, instead, scrambling to some unseen corner in the greenhouse. In truth, it was flattering that she’d task him with such a thing, but Jeralt would have never admitted it.

After a few minutes, she returned with another pot. “Let’s try not to break this one. I don’t want the gardener to chase me with his trowel.”

“Alright,” a chuckle left his lips when she kneeled once more and set down the pot like it was the most priceless thing in the world, “you have my word.”

This drew a smile from the young woman, and she grabbed his hands to guide him to set the flower inside of the small clay pot that had already been filled halfway with soil. Was she wanting him to plant it? He gave her a curious look which she returned with an enthusiastic nod. “You just have to place it in there and pat the soil around it. Not too difficult, right?”

It would have been rude of him not to do something as simple as this for her; he’d been partly responsible for the destruction of the precious item of pottery. This wasn’t a complicated process, or at least it shouldn’t have been, but her proximity as she corrected his “dirt packing technique” made him shift nervously. She apparently didn’t notice this, and grabbed the potted plant when they’d finished rehousing it before standing up and offering him her hand.

He stared at it like an idiot, but collected himself enough after a moment to reach out and grab it. He actually didn’t need her help standing up, but the gesture was friendly enough.

“Thank you for your help, Captain Jeralt.”

“Just Jeralt’s fine—and don’t mention it.”

After a moment of standing in awkward silence, the woman spoke up. “I should probably get going,” she said, a hint of regret in her voice. “I apologize for listening in on your conversation, but I’m thankful I got to speak with you. Maybe I’ll see you around another time—I wouldn’t mind hearing another story of yours.”

When she began walking towards the exit, Jeralt realized he’d never asked her what her name was. It was completely in character for how socially inept he was, and he stopped her before she could disappear to fix his social slip up.

“I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Turning to him, a small smile on her lips, she responded, “It’s Sitri. Make sure you don’t forget it.” Even covered in dirt, there was something striking about the way she looked with the rising sun filtering through the entrance behind her.

_Sitri_ , _huh_?

As she waved him goodbye, Jeralt doubted very seriously that he would forget the name of the peculiar woman cradling her pot of forget-me-nots anytime soon. Maybe, if he still had any luck left, he’d see her again. The thought brought a smile to his face, and he left the greenhouse in better spirits than when he’d arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering that territory where, while this story is sticking to the canon timeline and canon information we _do_ have, I am interjecting some of my own canon into this to flesh out characters and give them some backstories since Nintendo left fans breadcrumbs to go by. Hopefully, this doesn't bother anyone too much. I'm really interested in exploring Jeralt's own transition from (what I picture to be) a headstrong and eager young man to someone who has seen and experienced more than his fair share of the world and has to an extent been disenchanted by it.
> 
> Next chapter will focus more on Sitri and offer a glimpse into her own story.


	3. Subtle Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the delayed chapter. Things have been so chaotic in my life; I've had to transition to online courses, a torturous learning experience for ALL, as well as learning to adjust to a life of social quarantine (thanks COVID!) This chapter is a bit shorter because I struggled a lot with writing it out, but hopefully, it's not too dull for everyone's taste. I'm making up Sitri's story as I go, something that is a little more of a difficult process, but I digress. Please enjoy! Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are always appreciated! :)
> 
> **Warning(s):** None

Sitri idly drummed her fingers against the oak desk, half-listening to the current conversation she was having with the archbishop. Her mind was currently preoccupied with the events that had occurred this morning when she’d less than gracefully bumped into the current captain of the knights and dropped a pot that was _very much_ an antique. She’d been chewed out by the head gardener for her knack for disrupting the peace in the greenhouse.

It had actually been a bit funny, and his frustration had failed to put a damper on her positive mood.

Talking to Jeralt had also been a nice change of pace in her normally mundane schedule, especially hearing about the secret locations within the monastery. Unfortunately for Sitri, word had spread quickly that she’d once again caused a “scene” in an attempt to diversify the monastery's selection of fauna, and as usual, she’d been called to Rhea’s office to have a discussion about not giving the current groundskeeper a stroke.

“Sitri.”

The young woman blinked.

“Have you listened to a single word I’ve said?”

Not one to lie, Sitri shook her head in embarrassment, drawing a sigh from the older woman. They’d been through this so many times it seemed, and correcting her behavior when she was already an adult was essentially futile. Softspoken as she was, Sitri was incredibly stubborn. It was something that was not likely to change anytime soon.

“We’ll have this discussion another time,” Rhea said, standing up. “For now, let us go somewhere with a bit more privacy. I’d like to know how you’ve been feeling. Has your chest been in any pain lately?”

Sitri stood up to follow Rhea out of the door of her office and to a more private space in her quarters. “Not... particularly, no.”

This was their routine, and it had been so for as long as Sitri remembered. She’d always had a weak heart, a condition that had robbed her of a “normal” childhood, and it had always been Rhea who had treated her for it. Imogen had explained that when she came to the monastery, she’d been on the brink of death, and that Rhea had somehow managed to save her life. Nothing more had ever been revealed to her, other than the reason behind her frailty even after being rescued from the brink of death resulted from just how critical of a condition she was in.

To her knowledge, Rhea was the only person who had a full understanding of the frailty of her health. Her weak constitution made almost every task difficult; things that required minimal exertion for others often proved challenging to her. Something as simple as carrying a stack of books back to be put back in their shelves often required the assistance of the librarian on duty. Though she was loath to admit it, handling the pot of forget-me-nots while eavesdropping on the captain’s story had also been an exhaustive task.

The ever present negative effects that stemmed from her poor health had unfortunately contributed to what was best described as a life of isolation. She’d been told from a young age that leaving the confines of the monastery was off limits. It was a rule that had been expressed to her since she was a little girl, and it was _always_ accompanied by the same lecture—which Sitri could recite word for word—each time she expressed her desire to leave the grounds of Garreg Mach for a few hours.

“ _Sweet child,_ ” Rhea would always begin, “ _your health puts you at risk. You cannot test your luck when it comes to your... condition. That is why you must stay inside the monastery. You are much safer here._ ” This was always followed by a fond pat on the head, her way of indicating that the discussion was over.

Truthfully, Sitri didn’t subscribe to the idea that she was as lucky as she was made out to be. The feeling that Rhea was withholding some critical detail regarding this “luck” grew in accordance with each lecture she received, but it was only that—a feeling. The only conclusion Sitri had come to over the course of nineteen years was that a life spent within the confines of this stone fortress was hardly a life at all.

Maybe that was what had drawn her to the veteran knight who’d been recounting the excitement of the unknown within the confines of Garreg Mach. It was the loophole she’d been so desperate to find. If there were places within the walls of the monastery that not even _she_ had seen, she was _technically_ not leaving the grounds of her lifelong home by seeking them out.

So distracted by this promising revelation, Sitri failed to notice that they’d arrived at their destination and bumped into the door that led to Rhea’s room like a nitwit.

Rhea opened the door to the room with a sigh and motioned to the sitting room attached to the elaborate bedchamber. “I suspect something is on your mind. Why don’t you sit down and share it with me?”

Sitri situated herself on a large chaise, twiddling her thumbs. “I was just thinking about something that happened this morning. Other than the distress I’ve been causing the head of the gardens, that is.” The deep red cushions of the chaise shifted as Rhea sat down beside her, a faint trace of something almost similar to motherly affection in her tone as she encouraged her to continue with her story.

Her request gave Sitri pause, and she considered for a moment if she’d said too much and whether or not she should reveal anything to Rhea at all. It wasn’t as if indulging her in a snippet of the little tale she’d listened in on would necessarily get her in trouble, but the fact of the matter was that the story she’d overheard wasn’t hers to tell.

A little voice inside of Sitri suggested that she spare some of the “incriminating” details of the interesting tale she’d heard; it would be better to simply mention that she’d met the captain of the knights and that he’d helped her clean up the mess that he insisted they’d jointly made.

A small smile found its way to her lips at the thought. For someone who was in charge of the Knights of Seiros, he was peculiar and had subverted her expectations. His manner of speaking was far from refined for a man in such a high position, and she had heard through the grapevine that he had an unprofessional fondness for alcohol and a nasty habit of neglecting to pay his bar tabs. Despite the fact that he seemingly lacked qualities that one in his position might be expected to possess, there was something sincere about the way he conducted himself. In her eyes, his willingness to help a complete stranger with something as mundane as cleaning up shattered pottery and tending to a flower said more about his character than a few bad habits.

As well as her own judgment of Jeralt, Sitri was vaguely aware that he shared a close relationship with the archbishop. Having spent the entirety of her life interacting with her, Sitri was cognizant of the fact that Rhea was hesitant in placing her trust in others. Few met the standards she held her closest companions and confidantes to, and even fewer had her implicit trust. The captain of the knights was counted among the select few whom Rhea held in high esteem, and it was something that said more about him than the rumors and gossip in the monastery did.

Rhea was still gazing at her expectantly when Sitri peered over to look at her, and she realized that she’d not yet indulged her in the details of her meeting that she was willing to share.

“I ran into Jera—” she started to say, but corrected herself. “Captain Jeralt. I ran into him in the greenhouse.”

This piqued Rhea’s interest, and she raised a brow quizzically as she guided Sitri to reposition herself to lay down comfortably. Her hands were glowing white now, quickly reminding Sitri _why_ she had accompanied Rhea to her quarters in the first place. She’d asked how she’d been feeling, a question that was nine out of ten times paired with her specialized white magic.

Hands hovering just above Sitri’s heart, Rhea commented, “I was not aware you were on a first name basis with the captain. How did _that_ come to be?”

There was a teasing edge to her voice which Sitri chose to ignore in favor of staying still to make the process of treating her heart go by a bit faster. This conversation was quickly becoming an awkward interrogation.

“I... stumbled into him this morning. He told me to just call him Jeralt after he helped me pick up the mess in the greenhouse.”

Rhea hummed thoughtfully as she concentrated her magic over her chest. The sensation of her magic left Sitri with a warm feeling. Soon enough, she could feel her heart beating at a steadier pace, and the usual pain that plagued her diminished.

“There, all finished.” Rhea retracted her previously glowing hands from Sitri. There was a hint of guilt in her voice as she offered her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Before Sitri could ask her what was wrong, however, Rhea’s usual gentle expression once more returned. Perhaps she’d just been imagining the look in her eyes, and yet...

A knock at the archbishop's door accompanied by a familiar voice interrupted Sitri’s train of thought.

“It appears we’ll have to continue our discussion another time,” Rhea chuckled. “Aelfric is eagerly waiting for you.”

The corners of Sitri’s mouth were upturned in a small smile, and she dismissed herself after agreeing that they would need to meet up again soon. Stepping out of the room to greet her friend, she did not notice how the tender visage that had previously graced Rhea’s face had been replaced by a forlorn expression as she watched her leave, nor did she catch the sorrowful apology that left the archbishop’s lips upon the click of the heavy door shutting.

Next to the greenhouse, the library was one of Sitri’s favorite locations at the monastery. Countless texts describing in detail the geography of Fódlan, native wildlife and fauna, the interesting traditions held by those scattered across the continent, and stories from explorers and navigators long-deceased were her only means of accessing the outside world. She’d lost count of how many nights she’d stayed in the library reading up on little facts that most people took for granted, only to find herself the next morning asleep at a desk with her face in a book. Those who frequented the library were used to such a sight and kept whatever commentary they might have had on the matter to themselves, something she was thankful for.

If there was one person who sympathized with her fascination with books and frequent nights in the library, however, it was Aelfric.

“How are you feeling?” They’d just made their way to the library, sitting at a table where a stack of books she’d not seen before was stacked high. Aelfric was aware of the fact that she had a weak heart, a detail she’d disclosed to him long ago, but this was the extent of his knowledge. Despite this, she appreciated his concern and offered a small smile.

“Better.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, a flash of concern in his eyes when he said, “You know you can tell me anything, Sitri.”

Grabbing a leatherbound book rather than answering his question, she only nodded in response to his statement. His concern was appreciated, but at times invasive. There were some things not even she was willing to share with him, and he must have understood this sentiment because he changed the topic quickly to talk about the current text she was skimming over.

It was a compendium of the different kinds of flowers that grew in Fódlan, each page containing beautifully preserved pressed flowers that had not lost their vibrancy. The descriptions of these plants were more detailed than any book within the walls of the monastery that contained references to botanical plants, and Sitri found herself awestruck by the smooth calligraphy that ran across the pages.

“Where did you find this?” she inquired.

“I’m afraid the origins of this book will have to remain a secret.” A soft blush spread across his cheeks, shyly asking, “Do you like it...?”

Sitri regarded him with a smile in her eyes. “It’s lovely. Thank you, Aelfric.”

Flipping carefully through the book, Sitri paused when she reached a page containing a pressed forget-me-not, the events of the morning once more running through her head.

“Is something the matter?”

His question drew Sitri back from her reminiscing, and she shook her head. “Sorry. I was just... thinking about something that happened this morning.”

Her friend's attention now on her, Sitri quickly realized that she’d inadvertently initiated a discussion regarding her meeting with the captain. Unlike Rhea, she felt no hesitancy in sharing some of the finer details of her experience with Aelfric. She told him how she’d bumped into him, his willingness to help her, their conversation, how he’d helped replant the flower—albeit clumsily, and how she’d learned that there were other places within the walls of the monastery, sparing the more personal details of Jeralt’s story.

When she looked back over to Aelfric, there was a fond smile on his face. “That’s the captain for you, always willing to lend a hand where other knights would not bother and an avid storyteller.”

Sitri eyed him curiously. “You know the captain?”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “He’s been like a mentor to me for quite some time.”

Sitri realized that he’d mentioned his relationship with the captain once in passing, but he had never indicated that he interacted with the older man to the point where he was considered a “mentor.” She found it odd but didn’t comment further on the subject. Instead, she decided to ask—with a little too much enthusiasm perhaps—what details he could spare of the captain.

“Ah, that’s right... I suppose you’ve not seen him too frequently as a result of having to spend your time inside.”

There was a hint of sadness in his voice, but Sitri chose to ignore it. It felt as though he was pitying her, and it was a sentiment that she quite frankly could do without. Regardless, it was a matter that she chose to ignore; she was much more interested in hearing what he had to say about the man she’d less than gracefully knocked into this morning.

Aelfric, sensing his blunder, corrected himself. “It matters not,” he said apologetically. “I’m more than happy to tell you about him. Now, where to start...”

With an eagerness she’d not felt in a long time, Sitri sat quietly, chin resting in her hands, listening to the young man sitting beside her as he recounted his own experiences with the knight. A strange desire to once more see the peculiar man consumed her thoughts with each new detail she heard, and for the first time in her life, she found herself far more interested in something other than books or flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will involve more interactions between Sitri and Jeralt. My goal is to not rush through establishing character lore, but instead pacing it throughout the story as it continues. I'm not sure how many chapters this fic will be, but I'll _hopefully_ have it narrowed down soon.
> 
> (On a separate note, you may notice that I am slightly reformatting chapters to make them easier to read. None of what has been written will change.)


	4. Sudden Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while huh. College online has been a transition and not a very fun one, but I did it! I somehow made it through this semester and I can now spend my time working on personal projects (like this fic). I know I had mentioned in the previous chapter that we would be seeing more interactions between Jeralt and Sitri, but then I got ambitious. The original chapter has now been divided into several parts; I hope that by Memorial Day I'll have the other half up for you guys. Thank you for being so patient, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Warning(s):** Graphic Description of Violence, Graphic Description of Death

The soil was saturated and difficult to tread through by the time they’d reached the small settlement nestled just at the foot of the Oghma Mountains in the Empire, southwest of the monastery and give or take a few days from Varley territory if you travelled by horse. The heavy downpour had come seemingly out of nowhere; there’d been no indication that it would rain at all just an hour before, something that struck Jeralt as _unusual_ , but not unusual enough to dwell on the matter. He was a bit preoccupied with how chilled he was. His armor that, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to protect him from such unsavory conditions did little to protect him from the heavy droplets that had unfortunately slipped past the protection of his gorget, rendering what insulation he did have against the elements completely useless. Of course he’d been in worse conditions as a knight, especially so before he’d started serving under Rhea, but that didn’t change the fact that he was entirely uncomfortable, and at his wits end because of how... difficult this month’s mission was becoming.

It had been around nineteen years prior when the continent had begun to experience an influx of immigrants entering its borders, ranging from refugees from far off lands, people looking to make a new start upon the promise of relatively unspoilt land, and even the relative peace between the three countries that dominated Fódlan. The arrival of different groups of people with different and unique cultures had, at least in Jeralt’s opinion, done more for the Empire, Faerghus, and the Alliance than any of the noble houses had, but there were obviously those who did not share his sentiment.

House Varley was at wit’s end with this small little village for impeding upon what they claimed to be _their_ lands, and as all nobles were prone to, they’d come complaining to the church about it, citing a list of grievances that was absolute bullshit in his opinion. The only reason they’d been sent out in the first place was to placate Count Varley upon Rhea’s request, who was probably more tired of the man’s antics than even Jeralt was.

“I just need the knights to serve as mediators,” she sighed. He’d been called to her office shortly after her impromptu meeting with the count. “If Varley sees that this settlement is under the watch of the Church, he should be incentivized to cease his protesting. This _inconvenient village_ that he so adamantly believes intrudes upon his lands falls under neutral jurisdiction and always has. The Church and Hresvelg family have already agreed to this.”

Jeralt had nodded in response. “The knights will do what they can to alleviate the issue.”

Alleviating the issue, unfortunately, was easier said than done. Because of the torrential downpour, it had taken them longer than he liked to reach their destination, and by the time the knights had arrived, there was already drama unfolding. One of Varely’s subordinates had arrived before them and was currently arguing with an older man who was nothing short of distressed, but there was something about the situation that struck Jeralt as odd.

Alois, who had not left Jeralt’s side since arriving at their destination, seemed to have also picked up on the foreboding atmosphere that gradually surrounded the area, increasing in intensity as the rain fell harder. “I can’t quite place the feeling, but something feels off about this,” the younger knight commented.

“So you noticed too.”

It was raining even harder now, so much so that it obscured Jeralt’s vision to the point that he found himself squinting his eyes in an effort to carefully observe the situation that was unfolding. Initially under the impression that their mission would be more of a squabble than an actual conflict, Jeralt reached for the hilt of his sword, preparing himself for an unspoken conflict that was brewing.

“Captain? What are you—”

Before Alois could finish asking his question, the sudden, bloodcurdling scream of a woman penetrated through the air. In a flash, Jeralt withdrew his sword from its scabbard, Alois quickly following suit with his axe. Jeralt’s first impression—because it seemed the most logical—was that Varley must have dispatched more men than the one who’d been harassing one of the villagers, but upon observing the abject look of horror on the man’s face, it was blatantly clear that this was not the case. His conclusion was immediately confirmed when a sudden blade of wind eviscerated the man with gruesome ease, and he could only watch in shock as the man’s torso separated, killing him instantaneously.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jeralt hissed between gritted teeth. This was no longer some trivial mission to soothe hostilities; they were dealing with an enemy who had the advantage of remaining out of their field of vision due to the manic downfall of rain and the ability to cast long distance attacks.

Another scream of horror broke through the now howling wind, followed by a death cry that had goosebumps rising on Jeralt’s skin. The echoes of blades cutting through flesh and of magic crackling through the air grew louder and louder, until he was able to make out silhouettes that he could not discern from friend or foe.

The resounding whoosh of a sword being swung in his direction had Jeralt snapping to the right to parry the blow that had only been seconds away from striking him. “Stay on guard!” he barked out, quickly overpowering his attacker now that he had the benefit of seeing who it was he was fighting. He was quick to deflect the perpetrator’s following blow, and it was far too easy to strike the opposing sword with such force that it flung out of their hands.

He delivered the final blow swiftly, ignoring the way their blood spurted against his armor. There were more pressing matters; they needed to locate the villagers as soon as possible before more of them were killed. This was an organized effort to plunder a settlement lacking in defense due to its small size, that much was apparent when he peered down at the corpse before him. Coins, jewelry, and food had fallen from a dilapidated satchel, and Jeralt grunted in disgust at the sight. He’d have to dwell on the moral implications of pillaging later though; it was very clear that they were dealing with a group of thieves who were more skilled than he would have liked.

Desperate cries for help were carried through the wind, and without hesitation or back up, he sprinted to their source. What started as a sprint, however, became a full out bolt when the fearful wails of a child resounded directly ahead of him. The situation was escalating far too quickly, and he cursed himself for tying his horse to a tree as it became clear that the mare would have made the task of reaching the unfortunate victims of this hellish experience a hell of a lot faster.

He was close now, close enough to see that the source of the wracked sobs was coming from a young girl who was thrashing violently in an effort to get away from some depraved lowlife who found immense entertainment in gripping her hair roughly to force her to look at a pair of bodies.

The anger he felt upon witnessing the scene before him had Jeralt’s blood boiling; there had never been a point in his life where he’d felt so enraged. He had witnessed more than his fair share of the cruel, disgusting things people were capable of—it was the price that came with a life of fighting, and he’d been fighting for longer than anyone had lived. He had simply learned to compartmentalize it and to move on so as to not find himself in a position where the sights on the field of battle rendered him incompetent like they had when he was a much younger man.

This was different. In all the years he had lived, there had _never_ been something that caused him to lose his composure as quickly as he did then. Moving faster than he’d ever moved in his life, Jeralt struck the man’s head with the pommel of his sword with such violent force that the impact killed him immediately. Both girl and thief fell to the ground, the latter scrambling away from the man like her life depended on it. Jeralt immediately kneeled down to check if the child had sustained any external injuries, and he was relieved to see that there were only cuts and bruises, things that would heal easily on their own. There was a chance that she’d sustained deeper injuries though—he’d need to get her to a healer as soon as the situation was under control, there were still more people desperately in need of their assistance. Looking up to meet her eyes to ask if she could stand, his concern for her physical health was immediately outweighed by the way her body had locked up in shock, her eyes wide and frantic as she tried to process everything.

There was little time to spare. The rain was falling harder than it had been earlier, and all around the sound of steel clashing against steel and the shouts of his men, the villagers, and the bandits resonated loudly in the air. He needed to get her somewhere away from here, but what options were there? He peered around restlessly to look for any sort of makeshift place to hide her, but seeing through this storm was next to impossible. Jeralt knew that if he did not do something quickly, it would only be putting the two of them at further risk.

When he looked back at the child in question, he noted that she was trembling like a leaf. Her eyes were beginning to wander over the two lifeless bodies she’d been forced to stare at before he’d intervened, and large tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks, accompanied by small, broken sobs.

His heart lurched in his chest. There was little he could do, nothing he could offer that would soothe her in any way. The only thing he could do for this kid was to make sure she did not join her deceased parents.

Maintaining as calm and composed of a voice that he could, Jeralt spoke to the girl. “Kid, there’s something very important I need you to do, but I need you to look at me and listen to me closely.”

More shouts were coming from his right— _Alois’s voice_ , he realized—followed by the sound of thunder crackling through the air, and then by the familiar crunch of axe severing flesh and bone. The girl paled, but was quick to bring her attention to Jeralt when he hastily took the cape from his armor to place over her. “I need you to stay right by my side. You can do that, right?”

Hiccuping from tears, the girl nodded slowly in response. She was clinging to the tough fabric of his cape so tightly that her knuckles had begun to whiten, but there was little that could be done about it. Jeralt was quick to guide her away from their current location in favor of finding someplace dryer and safer to keep her until the issue of the bandits had been settled. Her legs were like lead as he led her away, and once more, Jeralt desperately wished that he was on a horse rather than trudging through mud.

So focused on getting the girl to a more remote and secure location, Jeralt did not notice the figure camouflaged within the dense thicket surrounding the area, nor the way an arrow had been nocked and the bowstring drawn, until it had been let loose and pierced the flesh of his upper arm.

He hissed in pain as he pulled the arrow out of his arm. Thankfully, it hadn’t done too much damage, though it was very clear it had rattled the girl considerably. Quickly sheathing his sword in favor of withdrawing his javelin from it’s strap, Jeralt peered in the direction from where the arrow had hit him. Though the rain obscured his vision significantly the shuffling of brush in the distance was the only sign he needed.

Lance in hand, Jeralt drew his uninjured arm back and waited for his opportunity

_Focus._

The archer was about five meters away, but if he put enough force into his thrust, the distance would be irrelevant. It only came down to timing.

_Breathe._

Jeralt inhaled deeply and adjusted his grip. It just came down to technique. Inhale and aim, wait for your chance.

_Aim._

His target was now in sight, no longer bothering to hide behind the foliage in favor of drawing a final blow. It was fatal miscalculation; Jeralt now had the upper hand.

_And release._

Arm thrusting forward, Jeralt let the javelin fly. Within seconds, the whoosh of the weapon was replaced by the sound of flesh being pierced and guttural cry that could be heard even through the rain. He could not help but grimace at the noise, but quickly pushed his discomfort aside. He needed to fetch his weapon quickly, but as he began to take strides in the direction of his fallen opponent to do so, the tight grip of a small hand reminded him that he was not alone.

Giving the girl’s trembling hand a reassuring squeeze, Jeralt urged her to close her eyes. Though he had long ago come to terms with death and its brutality, this child had not, and the knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth as he moved with caution to retrieve the lance, all the while ignoring the sharp throbbing from where the enemy’s arrow had embedded itself.

It had not taken much time to cull the rogues as the torrential rain was reduced to a sprinkle. Civilian losses had been minimized, but a loss of life was still a loss. The mission had taken a drastic turn, and in their lack of preparedness they had failed to protect the townsfolk from harm. It wouldn’t surprise him if Count Varley utilized this to sow further seeds of public dissent against these people, and it had been decided that several of the knights would accompany Jeralt back to the monastery to brief the archbishop on what had occurred and what should be done.

He had a headache, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the conversation that would be waiting for him upon his return, or the stabbing pain from where he’d been pierced.

There’d been nothing suspicious about the arrow, he’d checked a dozen damn times, but something about the injury had his head pounding and arm throbbing. The concoction he’d downed should have done something by now, but Jeralt was not one to pride himself on medical knowledge when most of his injuries were self-medicated by the bitter liquid in his trusted wooden flask.

More pressing than his injury or upcoming conversation with Rhea was who had not left his side since he had rescued her and was now riding on his horse with him. She had not said one word, something that did not surprise him but made the trek back uncomfortably silent. As he had suspected, the two bodies she’d been forced to look upon were those of her parents, and with no living relatives there was little the small settlement could offer. The girl’s name was Suri, and it had been decided that she would accompany the knights back to the monastery when she’d gone into hysterics as Jeralt mounted his horse with the intent to return swiftly, and now they were here, sitting in complete silence on the long road back.

If Jeralt had to guess, they were most likely an hour and a half away from someone who was more equipped to deal with her than he was, but for the most part things had been relatively smooth sailing, no unnecessary stops or setbacks—maybe they’d make good time and there would be a decent meal in the dining hall to get his mind off of all that had transpired in an eight hour period, some nice drink he could get himself lost in before exhaustion finally beckoned him away to his quarters. He’d need it when Rhea was done chewing him out.

“They’re really gone,” the girl said suddenly, startling Jeralt from his thoughts. “My family... they’re dead.” He wasn’t sure if the painful throbbing in his chest he was feeling was from his own heart or a result of the pain that had been spreading from his injury. He knew there was nothing he could offer her, not words of comfort that would ease such a loss.

“I couldn’t protect them,” her small voice quivered, “I wasn’t strong—not like you. I just... _watched_.”

Jeralt’s grip on his reins tightened as he tried to think of something to say, rather than letting her spiral like she had before.

“I let them... I let them die—”

“No,” he interrupted suddenly. “You didn’t let them die. Get that out of your head.”

He had not meant to come off as brusquely as he had, but Jeralt wasn’t by nature someone who possessed soft edges or words, not like a certain nun he had met only a few days before. He could not take a gentle approach, much as he wished, but he could be honest. Perhaps that was just as valuable.

“There was nothing you could have done, but you’re strong in your own right. You stayed by my side throughout it all without wavering.”

“But I—”

“Let me ask this. Have you ever fought with a weapon? Do you think you could have killed that man without losing your own life?”

His question was met with silence, but just as he began to think that he had crossed a line, Suri spoke up.

“No,” she responded solemnly. “I’ve never fought.”

“Then you can’t say that you let them die or that you even failed to protect them. There was nothing you could have done.”

The memory of a dying friend telling him those same words, _There was nothing you could have done_ , as he coughed up blood while held in Jeralt’s arms flashed through his head, causing the old knight to seize up. It was only the girl’s words that dragged him back from the past and into the present, snapping him from the recesses of his mind to hear her request.

“Teach me to fight.” Jeralt’s eyes widened as he looked at her. “I’m going to learn how to protect others.”

He was quiet for a moment as he processed her request. Would he even have the time to do something like that for this child? He’d been asked before by the monastery’s children, and his response had always been a pat on the head and an apology... but something about the determined look in her eyes had him reconsidering the notion. As the trees began to disperse and Garreg Mach became visible, Jeralt made a decision.

“Alright,” the corners of his mouth tilted upwards when he saw how her sullen were finally beginning to brighten, “I’ll teach you how to fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have some Jeralt/Sitri interaction, a glimpse into Jeralt's childhood, and _maybe_ some Rhea and original character appearances. Thank you for reading! <3


	5. Shades of Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's chapter 5! If you all haven't figured it out yet, I am one of those writers that finds angst and darker themes interesting to touch upon (hence the rating and warnings). I know that it's not everyone's cup of tea, so for the sake of those who would rather not read the section recounting Jeralt's experiences in his youth, it will be divided off by horizontal lines. I will say that it contains plot points that will be relevant and important in the future, but I don't want people to put themselves in an uncomfortable position by reading it. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy your Memorial Day, and once more, thank you for reading!
> 
>  **Warning(s):** Blood, Child Abuse

Arriving at the monastery could not have happened sooner for Jeralt. The entirety of his arm hurt like a son of a bitch, and even his chest was beginning to feel tight. The injury he had received while fighting in the small little village was more severe than he had initially considered, something that made sense considering his luck—or lack of it. For the life of him, he could not figure out what it was that was causing such a significant amount of pain in his body, but he could address it later. Right now, his main goal was to find Imogen, the elderly woman who helped with the care of all the children at Garreg Mach, and who had _not_ forgiven Jeralt for leaving her to pay his tab many years ago when she was a drinking partner.

He hadn’t asked her to pay and he hadn’t even bailed on his old friend, but she clearly remembered the events that transpired differently and stopped drinking with him soon after. Perhaps it was in his best interest to pay up he thought as he asked around to see if anyone knew where she was. Suri squeezed his hand nervously the entire time, which only increased his urgency to find her.

The sooner he got her to Imogen, the less anxious she would hopefully be. Even though the woman held a grudge, she was compassionate with the kids; she was capable of offering more to the now orphaned girl than Jeralt was.

After a few minutes of asking around, he finally received the information he had been searching for.

“She’s in the infirmary,” said a bishop. He looked like he had a hangover, but Jeralt didn’t comment on it. “Old Imogen’s in the middle of training a girl though. Think her name was... Citrine?”

Jeralt brows rose but he said nothing, only offering a curt thanks as he led Suri to the infirmary. She was silent most of the way, footsteps once more like lead as they had been when he’d dragged her through the rain.

“Are you okay?” he asked as they approached the door to their destination. Suri opened her mouth to say something, but her words were quickly replaced with a look of concern.

“You’re clammy.”

Jeralt took note of her observation with a dismissive, “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” Her eyes narrowed as she watched him closely, but the subject was dropped at that when he opened the door to avoid an interrogation from a child.

“—No, no, not like that. Yer being too aggressive, child. What did I tell ya about grinding peppermint?”

“Gently crush it in circular motions,” a soft, familiar voice sighed. “Don’t tear apart the leaves, or you won’t get any oil.”

“That’s my girl,” Imogen spoke with unusual affection.

Neither she nor Citrine— _Sitri_ , Jeralt corrected himself—noticed that he had even entered the room until he cleared his throat. Imogen turned around swiftly to see who it was that had stepped in for assistance, and the smile in her eyes immediately dissipated upon the sight of the knight. “Ah, it’s you. Here to finally pay me back, are you?”

Jeralt laughed, a hint of strain in his voice. “I’m afraid not, old friend. We both seem to have two different accounts of what happened.”

“Don’t go callin’ me yer _friend_ , you lazy, old—!”

“Who’s this?” Sitri gestured to Suri, who was currently hiding behind Jeralt. “Is she yours?

A bark of laughter left Imogen’s lips as Jeralt sputtered a very quick “no,” but laughter was quickly replaced with concern.

“What happened? The poor thing’s covered in blood!”

Jeralt smiled solemnly at the woman, and she pursed her lips as she watched the girl. “I’m sure ya must be wantin’ a change o’ clothes and a nice bath.”

Suri nodded slowly, finally stepping out from behind Jeralt to regard Imogen.

“Ah, a nice warm meal seems to be in order too. Here now,” Imogen smiled and offered her hand, “Why don’t ye tell me what kind of fixings ya like while we march o’er to the bathhouse.

Looking back at the knight for encouragement, Jeralt nodded for her to go along. “I’m not going anywhere,” he spoke. His voice was a bit weaker in timbre, something the young nun who had been watching the exchange noted quickly as Imogen and Suri bid the two farewell.

“I suppose... I should head out as well,” Jeralt spoke after a moment. “It was, uh, good to see you again.” He felt hotter than he had originally been since arriving at the monastery and a bit unsteady on his feet as he turned to leave. The soft touch of a hand on his wrist was the only thing that prevented him from doing so, however, and when he looked back, he could see the look of concern on Sitri’s face clear as day.

“Why don’t you sit down for a moment? You don’t look well.”

“I can assure you, I’m fine”— _a lie—_ “but your concern is appreciated.”

The smile that she gave him did not quite meet her eyes, and before Jeralt knew what was happening, she had practically dragged him to one of the cots and pushed him down on it.

“I didn’t take you for a stubborn man,” she said, and Jeralt could only laugh weakly. The pain was worse now, and he could barely feel his arm. Seeming to notice this, the green-haired nun touched his arm gently, but it was enough to have him flinching and cursing out in pain.

“It’s swollen,” she worriedly observed. “Did you sustain an injury when you were on your mission?”

Jeralt only offered a weak shrug in response. “It wasn’t too bad, just some arrow that managed to nick me is all.” He began to stand up but was once more pushed back down. A brow shot up as he looked at Sitri who seemed a bit frustrated by his antics. “I apologize, I just really have somewhere I need to be.” _Specifically in Rhea’s office to have my ear chewed off_ , he thought mirthlessly. “I can come back at a later hour to have it looked at—”

“You’re here now, aren’t you? I promise it won’t take long.”

Jeralt hesitated, but upon looking at her eyes, he knew that there was no way he was getting out of this situation. “Alright,” he finally conceded, and Sitri smiled gently him.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to need you to undress for me, unless you need me to do it for you.”

Jeralt looked at her wide-eyed, and he could see the way the wheels in her head were processing her own words right after they’d left her mouth. They sat in silence for a moment before she interjected suddenly, “I just meant because of your arm that it might be hard to...” Her face was red, and he might have considered it cute in a sense if not for the fact that he was just as embarrassed from the awkward exchange.

“I think... I can undress myself,” he finally said. Sitri only nodded as she quickly rushed to some unseen corner of the room to give him some privacy, and he quickly worked to remove his armor and then his undershirt. The process was made difficult because of his injury, and when he finally looked at it, he concluded that staying in the infirmary at her request was probably the smartest decision he could have made that day. It was a nasty, ugly wound. The skin around the area he’d been pierced had discolored unnaturally and was twisted in a way that even a moron could see was not right. He suddenly felt dizzy, dizzier than he had been when he'd traversed back to the monastery—and was sweating up a storm. His head was throbbing and his chest was constricting, and when Sitri finally returned from her hiding place to look him over, she immediately gasped.

“That’s not a little nick, Jeralt!”

He could only grunt in response as he fell back against the bed. As if this day couldn’t be even more of a shit show, it looked like his arm was about to fall off. Sitri worked quickly to gather what supplies she needed before sitting by the bed. Her face was in a grimace as she eyed the injury. “This is probably going to hurt,” she told him quietly, and before Jeralt could ask what it was she meant, the burning sensation of what smelled like alcohol had him cursing out. Sitri hushed him as wrung out a cloth that had been soaking near the cot to put against his forehead. It smelled strongly of peppermint—so strong, that Jeralt just about gagged from how overpowering the scent was.

“It’s powerful, I know, but it will help cool you off.” Rolling up her sleeves, the young woman dipped her hands in a basin of water before grabbing another cloth. “What kind of arrow were you hit with? Did you notice anything odd about it?”

Jeralt groaned a weak “no,” too caught up in his pain to notice the way her eyes had not at the sight of something dark and metallic embedded deep within the flesh. She realized that part of the arrowhead was still stuck within his arm, and with quick thinking, Sitri began to cast a spell.

“What... what are you doing?” Jeralt asked. Sitri looked back at him, her bright green eyes even more captivating than he remembered them to be when he had bumped into her that morning in the greenhouse.

“I’m putting you into a little coma.” She said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment he didn’t even consider questioning it until the word _coma_ ran through his head once more.

“Wait! You’re _what_ —”

Her serene smile was the last thing he remembered before the warmth of white light knocked him out, lulling him into a deep sleep.

* * *

“Again!” a deep voice boomed harshly. “There’ll be no rest for you until you land a hit instead of dodging my blows, boy— _again!_ ”

Jeralt could barely stand up as his father attempted once more to brutally strike him with another blow from his training lance, this time unable to dodge his attack from the exhaustion that was beginning to settle into his bones. He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that he was bruised black and blue from all of the places his father had hit him without reserve, and he was sure that he had received a few broken ribs too in the process. He had been ignored, as usual, and met with complete scorn when he had voiced this to the man who had only responded that if he had time to complain about the pain, then he was only a deadweight.

“There is no time to whine about something as trivial as _pain_ when you are defending your lord,” he spat out. “If you can’t do this much, then we will stay outside and train for as long as needed until you are immune to it.”

Jeralt only nodded in response, sweat rolling down his forehead as he attempted to ignore the sharp pain that wracked through his body each time he attempted to move. The last thing he desired was to upset his father more than he already had; he had lost count of how many times he’d been cursed out for missing an opportune moment to strike, berated for lacking the ability to hold a lance correctly, and reminded repeated that showing promise meant nothing if he couldn’t do something as simple as this.

It was hell, or the closest thing to it, each morning he was dragged from the relative safety of his bed to fulfill his duty as the only son of a man who considered his legacy the only important thing in this world and was adamant that Jeralt’s role was to carry it on. He would be a knight, and there was no negotiating the fact. His life had been planned the moment he was born—something he had been constantly reminded of for sixteen years.

In his distracted state, the young, battered man failed to notice that his father was coming at him full force, a withering look in his eyes when he swung his lance against his son’s side with such force that it knocked the wind out of Jeralt’s lungs as he slammed into the dirt.

He could barely register anything as he gasped for air and clutched his side desperately. There was blood, he realized, and his eyes widened as he attempted to collect himself lest the stonehearted man utilized the opportunity to subjugate him to more of this training.

“How can you call yourself an Eisner if you cannot even focus on the task at hand? Did I not raise you to be better than some distracted boor?”

Jeralt scrambled to get up but failed miserably, fighting for air as the older glared at him with eyes like ice. “I’m bleeding,” he choked out, his lance forgotten in the dirt in favor of covering the wound with his hands. “I need—”

“Pick up your lance.”

“But—”

“Did you not hear what I said?” his father snapped. “Stop sniveling and pick up your—”

“ _Euric_ ,” relief flooded through Jeralt at the sound of his mother’s voice, “that’s _enough_.”

“I thought you were going into town, Meriel,” the old knight said while clicking his tongue derisively at the woman who had disrupted what had become a ruthless beating rather than a spar. 

She gazed over at Jeralt who was still hunched over. “I am, but I need our son’s company. The tailor wants his measurements before she begins working on the tunic I requested.” Euric narrowed his eyes and began to open his mouth to say something, but Meriel cut him off. “A messenger from House Fraldarius has also requested your presence. I told him to wait in your office—it appears your lord requires your service.”

The change in Euric’s countenance from irate to composed was practically immediate and he quickly adjusted his shirt before tossing his lance to the ground. “We will continue this again,” he spoke hurriedly. Jeralt only looked away, but it was something his father either ignored or did not notice as he rushed past him and his mother to properly greet their visitor. Only when he was out of vision did Meriel rush to Jeralt’s side, falling on her knees in front of him to cup his face in her hands.

“Goddess, you're covered in cuts and bruises!” she gasped in horror. “Son, what did he do to you?”

Jeralt hesitated, unsure if he should tell her the truth or spare his mother the pain he knew she was plagued with each time he returned from a spar. The fear that it would somehow get back to his father plagued him as well, and he could not find the courage to begin to tell her what had happened. He remained silent instead as his hands continued to press against the area he was bleeding, another detail his mother didn’t need to know, but one she noticed anyway.

“Jeralt, please show me.”

He averted his eyes and only pressed his hands against the wound harder. “It’s fine—I can take care of it.”

“Jeralt.” Her voice was tender and soft as she stroked his cheek with her thumb, compelling him to look at her. Her amber eyes were watching him carefully and swirling with a depth of emotion he was not positive he would ever fully comprehend. “I am your mother. My job is to take care of you, though I know I’ve done a poor job at that.” Gently taking his hands away from the wound to grasp tightly, she remained silent while examining what he had tried to conceal.

“I need you to promise me something,” Meriel spoke quietly.

He gave her a curious look.

“Promise that you’ll take care of yourself and that you won’t hide when you are hurt. When others offer to help you, accept it.”

Something about the way she spoke left Jeralt’s stomach twisting, but for what reason, he couldn’t explain.

“I can do that,” he grimaced as she tore the fabric of one of her nicer dresses to press against the open cut.

Meriel pressed her lips against his forehead with a forced, bittersweet smile. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

* * *

When Jeralt woke up, he felt like crap. Whether it was because of his dream or the way his arm felt like it wasn’t attached to his body, he wasn’t sure, and when he attempted to sit up to figure out where he was and what happened, a hand was gently pushing him down.

“You may be awake now, but you still need rest.”

The woman’s voice was soft and quiet, and he recognized it to be Sitri’s. _Ah_ , he remembered where he was now, and one glance at his shoulder was the only thing he needed to see to know why she’d knocked him out in the first place. A good amount of time must have passed, he realized, because the light shining through the window was dim and fading.

As if sensing this observation, Sitri spoke up. “It didn’t take that long to remove what was in your shoulder,” she gestured to a basin where the smallest piece of metal he had ever seen was resting, “but then there was the process of reconstructing some of the muscle...”

Jeralt gawked at her. “From _that_ little thing?”

A look of excitement that was the same as the one she wore when she had told him about forget-me-nots flashed across her face. “That ‘little thing’ wasn’t a venin arrow, but it might as well have been one. It had wolfbane on it, a gorgeous flower, but incredibly deadly. You’re very lucky to be alive! I don’t even know how you managed to make it this far without falling dead.”

Jeralt rolled his head back on the pillow and groaned. This was the worst experience of his life; first the village, then the stupid arrow, that _dream_ —and he hadn’t even addressed the archbishop yet!

“Does Lady Rhea...?”

Sitri nodded. “She came in to check on you a while ago. She helped me with extracting the poison.” She paused for a moment, which drew Jeralt’s attention. “She was worried about you. You both must be close.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Something in the way she was examining him made Jeralt feel a bit uneasy. It was as though she was reading him like he was the most transparent man in the world, green eyes thoughtful as she watched him before blinking after noticing the way he was averting his gaze.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said. A blush was on her cheeks, but Jeralt was sure he only imagined it as it was gone within a blink. “I’m not very good at socializing.”

The tone of her voice was laced with a bitter sadness that caught Jeralt by surprise, and a rush of guilt hit him as he considered he might have been insensitive, especially considering that this woman he had only talked to twice in his life was essentially the reason he was awake and alive. To be so invested in the feelings of someone he’d only just met felt odd; he had never been one to actively attempt and socialize with others unless it was thrust upon him, similar to how Alois thrust his friendship at him several years ago.

Perhaps it was what made striking up a conversation easier than it had been with others for a long time. He was in the same boat as this woman, and in a sense could relate to her struggles despite circumstantial differences.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of wolfsbane before.” It was a horrible attempt at conversation, he knew, but it was a start. Luckily, her dour mood seemed to dissipate at the mention of the plant that had almost killed him, and she enthusiastically brought up a chair to sit by him.

“It’s odd because they don’t grow in Fòdlan. It’s used exclusively as a poison, but not many people know how to craft it anymore. I’m not sure how the person who attacked you came across it.”

Jeralt took a mental note of this detail as she continued to describe in enthusiasm how it was her favorite shade of purple, that people were convinced smelling it would kill them or turn them into demonic beasts, which was wrong and uneducated, and she had gotten in trouble with the previous gardener for telling him so when she tried to convince him to purchase some seeds so she could plant them.

“I told him if he’d read a book, he’d realize that he was only being superstitious, but he only yelled at me. I’m not very popular with the greenhouse staff.”

Jeralt laughed at this, then winced because laughing hurt his shoulder, and then laughed some more when she told him that she had bought the seeds regardless, but Rhea had confiscated them and had then proceeded to lecture her. Sitri only smiled softly at the sound of his boisterous laugh and waited for him to catch his breath before speaking up once more.

“I’m glad you’re doing a bit better.” Her hands gently worked to remove the bandage on his shoulder to replace it with a cleaner one. “You were trembling in your sleep, and I was worried that you might...” Sitri shook her head as she dabbed the gnarled and nasty scar the poisoned chip from the arrowhead had left until it was thoroughly cleaned, and she moved swiftly as she began the process of rewrapping his shoulder. “I’m happy you’re alright now. It was awful to think that I might have been too late—I’m not sure I could handle losing someone special.”

Jeralt was stuck on the fact that he’d been trembling in his sleep and barely heard her words. Maybe it was the plant; it could have been the nightmare, hell, it probably was. It filled him with a sense of vulnerability and shame, but before he could spiral, this odd young woman was telling him that she couldn’t handle losing someone special like him. This pulled him from his thoughts as he tried to process the statement, and he glanced over to look at her, the confusion and slight embarrassment on his face from such a bold statement that she had most likely said without thinking clear as day.

He began to open his mouth to ask her to clarify what she meant, but the sound of the infirmary door opening and the clicking of heels that he knew all too well cut him off.

“I am glad to see you are well, Captain. That was quite an injury you sustained during your mission.” The woman stepped closer and he shut his eyes to feign sleep, something that unfortunately did not work on his surprise visitor, Rhea. “Why don’t we talk about what happened? You can fill me in on the details while Sitri returns to her duties.”

“Ah, but I’ve finished for the day—”

Rhea smiled.

“—but I... suppose I could help Aelfric for a bit.”

“That sounds excellent, Sitri. I believe he’s in the chapel right now.”

The nun nodded briskly and stood from her place on the chair to leave. “I’ll come back and check on the captain later,” she said as she walked to the door. She cast one last glance at him, seemingly hesitant to leave, but ultimately decided against it and stepped out quietly.

Rhea was already sitting on the chair where Sitri had been previously when the door clicked shut, her usually calm and collected demeanor replaced with frustration that rolled off of her in waves until Jeralt was concerned he might drown.

“Care to elaborate on what transpired? I happened to clear my schedule and cancel a meeting with Varley, who was in hysterics by the way, so we could talk about what went wrong, and _why_ it did.”

Jeralt dragged his hand down his face with a tired sigh while Rhea awaited a response.

This day just kept getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Sitri's a nun, I thought it would be suiting for her to be a healer, and because of her love for plants, someone versed in medicine as well. You'll definitely see more of Imogen and Suri in the future (as well as other previously mentioned OCs—they've not been forgotten!) and more interactions between Jeralt and Sitri. It's definitely a slow burn romance, but I swear we'll get there folks.
> 
> I promise that the next chapter will NOT have dark content (other than Jeralt getting lectured) as this one did. Expect subtle fluff.


	6. ~Update~

Hello all! This isn't a chapter upload but an announcement for you all just to let you know what the current situation is. I'm in the path of tropical storm Cristobal which is supposed to hit early next week. As a result, I'm not too sure when I'll have actual ch. 6 uploaded, but I do have the outline. Because we're taking precautions and making preparations, I haven't had too much time to actually write, but I hope to have it up before the end of the month (weather and running electricity permitting). Stay safe, and thank you for your patience! :)


	7. Trouble in Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the dead! Kind of! Here's chapter 6 for your consumption. It's not as long and doesn't cover as much as I want it to, but there'll be more interactions coming your way soon. I'm trying to get back into the groove of things with all that's going on in life, but reading the Witcher has helped immensely and motivated me to write some more each day.
> 
> You should also read the Witcher. Really. Please read it.
> 
>  **Warning(s):** None

What had transpired at the southwest foot of the Oghma Mountains had been nothing short of disastrous, and news of the event had come to her attention from a surprise visit from a  _ very _ enraged Count Varley. He’d quite literally marched into her office despite the efforts of the guards to keep him from disrupting her during her private prayer time.

Truthfully, she wasn’t  _ praying _ as much as she was partaking in a drink from the flask she kept expertly hidden in a small compartment in her desk drawer which she had to rush to put away when the fuming, portly man had barged in to demand an audience with her. She had agreed to schedule a meeting with him as soon as she was finished with her daily prayers with the most forced smile she’d ever given in her life, something that seemed to placate him just enough to leave her be. Her schedule was already booked, and she doubted she would receive an unbiased account from a man who, to her knowledge, hadn’t even been present, but what words he had angrily conveyed to her were cause enough for concern.

All had been going according to what had become a hellish schedule, but as soon as news of the captain’s return and his trip to the infirmary had reached her, she canceled everything that had been planned for the day, including Varley’s meeting, to address this issue with Jeralt.

At least, that had been the initial plan until she saw the condition he was in and the pale expression on Sitri’s face as her bloodied hands worked to remove something from the ghastly wound on his shoulder, and Rhea decided that the conversation could wait to immediately step in and assist the young nun in her effort to heal him.

It had been several hours since then, and after being bombarded with accusations and complaints by a very agitated Count Varley, her temper had worn thin.

Now she was sitting as patiently as she could by the captain’s bedside as she waited for an explanation from him of the events that had occurred during what, for all intents and purposes, should have been the easiest mission the knights had been assigned in quite some time.

“Captain.” Rhea crossed her hands in her lap and gazed at him expectantly. “I would like an answer to my question. What went wrong during this mission, and  _ why _ did it go wrong? Count Varley has all but threatened to cease his support of the Church because I canceled our meeting to speak with you. He was so kind as to tell me his side of the story, but I’d much prefer a detailed account from the knight who was charged with leading this mission.”

Jeralt closed his eyes. He was thinking of a carefully worded response to her question, no doubt, and after a moment of silence, he looked at her.

“It was a diplomatic mission, and we prepared for it accordingly.”

“You should  _ always  _ be prepared to fight regardless of the nature of a mission. Was this not the first thing you were taught by the captain when you were made a knight?”

“We were equipped to handle the situation were it to go awry—”

“Then why _ , _ ” Rhea interrupted rigidly, “was the head of House Varley at my office door and in hysterics if you were ‘equipped to handle the situation,’ Jeralt?”

A tense silence filled the room, and neither the captain nor archbishop spoke. The immeasurability of the stress she felt had her rubbing her temples to keep at bay the headache that was forming. She understood well how quickly conditions changed. Fights and their outcomes were unpredictable; she could not fault him for what had transpired when his tactical skills and ability to lead were unparalleled.

With a tired sigh, Rhea’s hand reached beneath her cope and pallium to fish something from her dress. It was unbecoming of the head of a religious organization to do, but it was also easy to take a break from her status in the company of an old friend. Her hand brushed against the empty locket she wore close to her heart which caused her to pause, but the perplexed look on Jeralt’s face at the sight of her digging through her robes led her to quickly move away from the invaluable item to pull out a flask.

“Ah. And here I was thinking that the archbishop didn’t drink,” he said with a humored grin. “Perhaps I should go back to the library and glance over those religious texts that you’ve been badgering me to read for the past century.”

Rhea shot him a look and unscrewed the cap from the canteen.

“Those are bold words from the man who once challenged the archbishop to a drinking competition  _ and _ lost.” She took a swig of the bitter, brown liquor before continuing. “And I believe you mean  _ more  _ than a century. Your position on the matter has not budged since you were knighted.”

Jeralt only _ hmm _ ed in response to her statement, and the strained silence that previously engulfed the room began to creep back. Knowing it would not do to allow such an atmosphere return when there were still questions to be had and answers that she still sought, Rhea offered him the flask which he gladly took a sip from after swirling its liquid contents idly.

“Of the casualties, how many were civilians?”

“Four from the settlement. Five if you include the instigator Varley deployed.”

“What of the bandits you fought?”

Jeralt paused to gaze into the flask. His brows were furrowed and after a moment, he handed the small pewter container to her. “We counted twelve, but... something about what transpired doesn’t sit well with me. They were unusually organized and skilled for a group of thugs—didn’t even hesitate to attack when we arrived. There was practically no visibility because of the rain, but they were unphased by it. It was as though they had been counting on it, maybe even waiting.” The knight glanced over to Rhea, who wore an unreadable expression on her face. “I could be looking too much into it, but even the poison...”

“Yes, the wolfsbane,” said Rhea. Her lips pressed into a thin line as the memory of Sitri working desperately passed through her mind. “You owe her a great deal—Sitri. She was the one who quickly determined what it was that ailed you; I only assisted in removing the poison. Were you under the care of anyone else, I’ve no doubt you would not be here right now.”

Grimacing, Jeralt nodded in acknowledgment of this. It was safe to assume that he’d already been told as much by the young nun when he had finally recovered, though Rhea was unsure if he understood the full extent of just how serious the situation had been, or if he knew that in her desperation to save his life, Sitri had been more emotive than Rhea had ever witnessed in her life.

The subject was not hers to comment on, despite the curiosity that ebbed at her mind when it came to the nature of what their relationship might be for such an abrupt change in her personality. There were more pressing matters to attend to, like the fact that the group of thieves had access to a poison that was so difficult to concoct that the art of doing so had practically been forgotten, which meant that they were either in league with someone who had access to the plant and knew how to produce poison or had access to a market that dealt with items of ill repute.

There were countless markets throughout the continent that sold and smuggled dangerous goods, and to say that the Church had not once interacted with them would, unfortunately, be a lie. The fact was something that she did not need to divulge the captain in, vying instead to sort through what markets she suspected  _ might _ fall under reasonable suspicion until she reached the Abyss.

“It seems as though you have your suspicions,” Jeralt spoke.

“Yes”—Rhea took another sip from the flask—“but it is only that, a suspicion.”

“...And the bandits?”

At this, she paused. What had occurred in the small village was cause for concern. It was without a doubt premeditated; they had been prepared, were in possession of rare, deadly substances, and unaffected by the sudden change of conditions. Not even the extensive training of her knights had been enough to claim a successful mission, regardless of lives saved. 

She was not sure what to make of it, so rather than addressing what was becoming the elephant in the room, she did what anyone with years of diplomatic experience would do—change the subject.

Their conversations at first were brief and polite, revolving around work, progress, training, and the like, but they quickly delved into matters more casual. She found herself reminiscing over the past, bringing up past bets over drinks, and laughing when neither could agree on whether or not she still owed him an apology for telling him so long ago that a beard would  _ not _ suit him, which was why he couldn’t grow one.

Time passed by easily as they continually talked back and forth, and it was a rare moment. Rhea felt as though she could relax for a spell and truly enjoy someone’s company. There was solace in rare instances where decorum wasn’t of concern when interacting with the curmudgeonly but dedicated man she felt she could call a companion, a term she did not toss around lightly.

It was only when she peered to look out the window that she realized a good amount of time had passed, and to her disdain, it would be unwise to spend much more time chatting about when tomorrow she would have two day’s worth of work to do.

Sitting up from the chair with a sigh, she tucked her flask back behind her ornamental garb. “You should rest, Captain. It would be remiss to not seize the opportunity, although the circumstances are admittedly less than ideal.”

Jeralt opened his mouth—no doubt to comment that she, the archbishop of all people, was still avoiding a question—but she intercepted him before he could make a remark.

“It too would be rude of me to take up more of your time than I already have,” she continued. “I recall a certain nun promising to come and check up on you.”

Within moments, there was a soft knock against the door, accompanied by the faint, fragrant smell of cooked fish.

Shifting her gaze to the door, Rhea smiled softly. “It seems your streak of luck is far from over, Jeralt. It’s quite a privilege to have a meal made by Sitri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually have no structure or definitive update schedule, I'm just kind of going with the flow, so I am going to stop _promising_ stuff in the notes when it isn't in the following chapter. Sometimes I overestimate myself; this is one of those cases. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (Don't worry though, y'all will get your content.)


End file.
